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“I said no.”

He walks toward me.

I wait.

Three steps.

Two.

One.

He reaches for my arm.

I move.

My free hand comes around and drives into his throat.

His eyes widen.

I grab the front of his vest and slam my knee between his legs.

He folds.

I rip the radio from his vest and bring it down against the side of his head.

Once.

He falls.

The girls stare at me.

For half a second, so do I.

I haven't exactly spent my adult life knocking armed men unconscious.

But I have spent years making sure no man could ever trap me in a room again.

Apparently, the classes paid off.

“Is he dead?” the youngest girl whispers.

I crouch and press two fingers against his neck.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

His eyes flutter.

“Yes.”

I pull his gun from the holster.

The weight feels familiar enough.

I practice at a range.

Paper targets don't shoot back.